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“Mum likes me more than you.” Daphne was woken up by the piercing voice of
her younger sister Sarah.
“Oh really? Is it because she found you facedown in
a ditch on New Year’s that once? Is that what tipped it over the edge?” One
particularly eventful New Year’s Eve; Sarah’s first New Year’s Eve kiss, in
fact. With a homeless guy in jail; but when drunk you take what you can get,
don’t you?
The sun wasn’t even up yet and Sarah was trying to win. Her older
sister Daphne didn’t give a fuck, and had taken her pillow and jammed it over
her face. “Too early in the morning for this shit,” she mumbled from underneath
her smothering device. She then tried to roll over and go back to sleep. Which
she hadn’t thought through, because her lack of eyesight meant that she fell off
the mattress and on to a hard wood floor.
“Merry Christmas to me,” she
gasped, now disturbingly and completely awake. “This is what I had in fucking
mind.”
The whole family had packed the night before, and stacked their cases
in order of importance while waiting for a cab to the port. Because that was an
ideal way to spend the beginnings of Christmas morning. In a taxi, not talking
to anyone.[1]
“I heard you guys talking about something, like, a week ago.” Sarah stated in a
way that indicated any harmony was about to be obliterated. “You and Dad were
talking about a scoreboard, and you said I was on the bottom. What was that
about?”
Her mother, Fiona, wasn’t forthcoming with an answer. “Well … we have
a sort of offspring scoreboard. Have since you were little.”
Sarah’s father,
Rick, was less afraid of where the conversation was going. “And right now
Daphne’s on top –”
“Careful where and how loud you say that,” Alex cut in.
“Then Alex in the middle, and Sarah on the bottom. It’s nothing personal, you’re
just –”
“More annoying.” Alex again. His sense of humour and unusual outlook
on life had made him an outcast at school, and he’d never really recovered from
the isolation. He’d had some epic nights out at uni, by which Fiona would mean
he’d passed out on a deck chair on the deck instead of inside the house.
“It’s not a problem,” Sarah retorted. “You’ve just gone to below Grandma on the
grown-ups list.”
“Wait, WHAT.” That ended the conversation, and started off
the competition, and the idea that one of the kids would get to the top of the
scoreboard and be a Winner. Presumably the same would apply for the adults.
Rick and Fiona would have a conversation later about how the kids had a
grown-ups scoreboard. That’s just rude[2].
The family were headed for a luxury yacht they’d spend Christmas and Boxing Day
on. They’d booked it at the beginning of the year when it sounded like a good
idea, without really thinking about it.[3]
“It is quite small,” Alex and Sarah said in the same apprehensive tone at the
same time.
“We haven’t even seen the inside yet.” Rick tried to nix the
conversation before the negativity took them over.
“But we don’t need to. The
outside looks tiny.”
“It’s like Uncle Rudy’s yacht. And you guys
always said he was a self-made millionaire, as if that justified the fact we
couldn’t move our heads on board that thing.”
“They meant counterfeiter.
Uncle Rudy’s a counterfeiter.”
“Shhhhh, careful how loud you say that. The
court case is still ongoing and they might have bugged the car.”
“The dead
fly on the windshield?”
“You’re on the bottom of the scoreboard so shush,
Alex.”
“First of all, how very dare you. Second; Mum, Dad, I promise I won’t
put you in a home.”
“Guys. We don’t have a proper actual list,” Fiona
started, and Rick concluded; “we just know who is best.”
“Rick, why are you
like this?” Fiona hit her husband on the arm in mock-annoyance.
“How’s this
scoreboard measured?” One of the kids asked, and Fiona resented having to answer
the question. But only because it exposed the family’s slightly-too-clincial
view of each other.
She looked across in mock annoyance, then recited the
criteria, as if leant by rote[4].
“Overall opinion; which is a category that stretches back to when you were born.
Ability to do household chores – and yes, Alex that includes you so stop looking
so smug. Also general ‘not being annoying at the current time; being on social
media loses marks, Daphne.” This remark directed at their eldest daughter who
had her phone out and was on Instagram, or Snapchat or one of those. Rick and
Fiona didn’t care enough to check. “And the last category is how easily and
properly your suitcase is packed. Sarah loses that round because her suitcase is
basically spherical, and does genuinely include the kitchen sink. That last
one’s a wildcard category that we can use to manipulate the scores to whatever
we feel like at any given moment.”
“So any day’s fair game.”
“Honey, any
given minute’s fair game. You just have to be better than your siblings.”
“Oh, not hard.” Alex’s reply got him pelted with sundry items from both Sarah
and Daphne’s pockets.
Christmas morning was always fun for different reasons. In fact, that was
part of the Christmas morning fun; figuring out how the day would find an
innovative way to spontaneously combust. The family managed to get through
morning gifts (which, having been carefully calculated to be equivalent value
for each child, sometimes at the expense of inventiveness) and most of breakfast
(well-cooked bacon at the expense of free-flowing conversation) before the
sibling rivalry bubbled back to the surface[5];
as it was always inclined to do. The family would then be engulfed in a bitter
war of one-upmanship, only to be stopped when Daphne managed to fall overboard
from the yacht and into the sea. This continued until about an hour after lunch
in the middle of the day.
Alex approached his father, looking more sheepish
than normal. “Um, dad?”
“Yes?”
“The boat’s on fire.”
“What?”
“The
boat’s on fire.”
“Where? Show me.”
Rick went to investigate the fire and
the rest of the family sat in the main room of the yacht, waiting for his
diagnosis. From where they were, they heard a rhythmic banging against the wall.
Alex moved to investigate.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Really?”
“I’m. Fine.”
“You’re literally kicking a wall out of frustration.”
“You should have been
less of an idiot, then.”
“Who, me?” Alex was confused.
“You’re telling me
that you noticed the fire and didn’t start it. These incidents follow you around
like a lovesick Labrador.”
“That tends to be how fires get noticed, yeah.”
“You’re acting like I’m being unfair,” Rick growled, as he hunted for a fire
extinguisher.
“You’re quizzing me like someone’s been murdered…” Alex replied
quietly[6].
Alex picked up the ‘this is like a murder interrogation’ line with Daphne
later on, while they were on the top deck musing their lives and the fact that,
despite Rick’s best efforts, the boat was still on fire after an hour. He’d
called for help when they realised the fire had a personality quite similar to
Sarah, and couldn’t be contained. The rescue ship was about an hour away, and
the best they could do in the meantime was pack up their gear and try to keep
the fire under as much control as possible. Rick was, therefore, employed in
waving a towel at the fire while yelling at it and saying that it was ‘so
grounded’; while Fiona had gone back to preparing the Christmas meal. Because
that’s what you do, isn’t it? Just keep swimming (where they would be if they
weren’t lucky), ahem going.
“I heard that there was a murder here, once.”
Alex, lost in thought.
“Where -- I swear, if you say ‘on the rocks’, I will
leave you.” Sarah, lost in cellphone. She’d brought it up on the deck. They were
still close enough to the city that
“We’re siblings and therefore not
married. There are laws against that.”
Daphne looked up from the screen,
presumably to attempt to turn down the brightness of the sun. “Hey, Alex. Look.”
She pointed at the unusually still ocean.
“What?”
“We’re not going
anywhere anymore[7].”
Fiona had put the chicken into the ship’s oven, and the children had considered
the possibility that the rescue ship wasn’t coming at all. They had been waiting
for about an hour. At the very least it was due soon, and still nowhere in
sight; much like a friend before a night out.
“Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God[8].”
“What?”
“This is praying, isn’t it?”
“Well, I guess. But it’s normally
less … desperate. Especially at 10 oclock on Christmas morning.”
“How do you
keep from stressing out on Christmas?”
“Getting drunk by 10AM and staying
that way until the end of New Year’s, because if you’re just gonna get fucked up
on Christmas and New Year’s then why on Earth would you be sober in between?
That’s just inefficient.”
“You can justify your problem however you like,
Mum.”
“I don’t have a problem, I just –”
“Like a vodka or six.”
“Yes.
Wait, no. Oh, shut up.”
“So what are you saying?”
“I’m saying that if you want to be called
‘tolerant’, you have to tolerate. I mean, seriously what the fuck do you
think What is ‘I’m not a racist, I just think they’re coming for our jobs’
supposed to mean?”
In hindsight, this caused a shitstorm that Sarah wasn’t
able to contain, and spawned a now-relatively-reasonable ‘no talking politics at
Christmas’ rule.
They’d expedited the Christmas lunch and were eating it in
the main room of the yacht while Rick periodically moved off to check how the
fire was getting along[9].
“It’s supposed to mean that I don’t have to justify myself to you.”
“Because
actions speak louder than words,” Alex retorted while pissing in the sink.
The conversation dried up a little, then
“What’s the worst lie you’ve ever
told?”
“I used to switch around the labels on suncreams … ‘what do you mean
it’s only SPF 15??!’ … Yeah, that was a fun afternoon.” That sounded like the
kind of thing Alex would do for fun, along with coding, being antisocial and
‘starting random fires’.
Sarah went next, “I started a cheating ring. Like
what they do with drugs but instead with …”
“Test answers?” Fiona, almost
worried. But not really, because this was Sarah. She knew what she was doing.
Sort of.
“Gosh no. Other girls’ boyfriends. I’m actually getting a bit of
hate at the moment. Nothing I can’t manage, but …”
“I tried to pretend I knew
how to use tools to flirt with a boy, and therefore use a tool, but I’ve
never actually used a pair of secateurs.” Daphne cut in before the extent of
Sarah’s secrets were exposed to the whole family. You ave to stick together,
right? Especially if you made the mistake of thinking superglue was lube. Which
isn’t something I’ve done. Nope, definitely not.
“Isn’t that something that
has no relevance to the thing that came before it?”
“No, that’s a
non-sequitur, although you’d probably misspell it and mix them up.”
“How’s
that relevant?”
“It isn’t. That’s the whole point, as I was saying to pet
dragon the other day … May well have been a quasi-affectionate nickname for
Fiona, but their family dynamic is none of my business, except if it is.[10]
Rick kept the conversation going, “I cry while cutting onions because a man
named Jeff Onions killed my father.”
“What?”
“Nothing, dad. Also fuck
pigeons.”
“Fuck who?”
“Everyone.”
“Dessert’s nearly ready,” Fiona
called from the kitchen; she’d got up to check on the Christmas cake that,
secretly, nobody really liked but everyone ate anyway. She’d learnt a family
recipe years ago and couldn’t be bothered to change it[11].
It had been two hours and it very much looked like there was no help coming
at all. For both the ship, which remained both isolated and on fire, and for the
eating of the Christmas cake, which remained undesirable.
Eventually, Sarah
retired to her room to relax, and Alex came to check on her.
“Before you ask
about Firefly, I clicked the wrong folder, a thing happened and I finished the
series. Whoops.”
“Why haven’t you learned to drive?” Alex asked, taken aback
by her guesswork, mostly because it was wrong.
“Can’t be arsed, mate.”
“But it’s so easy!”
“Pedals that go push-push and a wheel that goes spin. So
it’s easy enough to drive. Just my coordination would cause massive
damage problems. That’s not seriously why you came to see me, is it?”
“No.
You said you were getting hate. I can help if you want.”
“The last time
someone approached me with a sentence like that they wanted me to sign a
contract. So I got in touch with a hitman.”
“And he just punched them on the
arm? What’s the hate about?”
“It’s a flow-on from Daphne’s cheating ring.
Basically she’s catfishing about three people of each gender simultaneously and
trying to wreck … however many relationships that is.”
“Three.”
“Three,
yeah. And so they’re lashing out at anyone that could be involved, and
that’s where I come in.”
“I suppose at least she’s not made them join a cult.
I could black-hat them, if you want?”
“Or just passive-aggressively tweet at
them like a pigeon.[12]”
Alex and Sarah reached an agreement. They were on their own in the mess that
Daphne had created, and asking their parents for help … wouldn’t help. They’d
decided it, so it must’ve been correct.
“Daphne, you do realise that Sarah’s
been getting threatened online?”
“It’s the hair,” Daphne replied, waving the
statement away with her hand, “I told you to change it.”
“No, it’s your
meddling that’s causing her problems.”
“Meddling? How do they e—”
Evidence
was produced, which shut Daphne up. Well, I say produced. Sarah threw her phone
at Daphne’s head.
Then Rick’s patrol of the ship took him past their
location, and he stopped to see what they were discussing.
“What? Oh, we were
just –” Sarah hurriedly tried to cover up what they had actually been talking
about, “umm – wondering how Mum doesn’t cry when she cuts onions.”
Rick
replied, “Lots of people cry when they chop onions. The key is not to form an
emotional bond.” Then he left. Other more important stuff to deal with, like
checking how the fire was progressing and that it hadn’t gone stale. He let the
children know that the rescue party was about an hour away, by now. That’s
police response times, for you[13].
“Explain why you ran a cheating ring in the first place.” Alex was still
trying to solve Sarah’s problems. Sarah had gone off to try and convince their
parents they weren’t planning a mutiny.
“For fun, do I have to have a
reason?” Daphne replied while balancing their mum’s cookbook on her nose.
“And you thought you could goat people into doing what you wanted?”
“Goat?
What the fuck? And yeah, I’d have leverage.”
“Leverage so you could duck out
of your responsibilities before you quail at doing them?”
“Duck? Quail? What
the fuck are you doing?”
“Replacing words with animal names, just to annoy
you. At least promise you’ll stop so that Sarah stops getting abuse.”
“For
fuck’s sake …” Daphne sighed. She knew when the writing was on the wall. In a
small part of Alex’s bedroom when she’d graffitied there years ago. But don’t
tell Rick or Fiona, ssshhh.
“I’m not doing it on porpoise.” Alex hurriedly
replied[14].
He then equally as hurriedly left the room, to avoid being hit by Daphne’s shoe,
as she headed back into the main room after being summoned by Rick.
“I’ve
gathered you all here today,” declared Rick as the family assembled with their
gear in the main room, “to announce that the rescue boat is only ten minutes
away.”
“Oh thank God,” Sarah sighed with relief. “I thought you were gonna
announce that you’d found us husbands.”
“Or who’d set the fire,” Fiona
declared, glaring at Alex.
“What do you all think it was me for? I didn’t do
anything, that’s not how this works! And you won’t even believe me. You’re
setting me up for something, aren’t you…” Alex started to talk, manically. Not
entirely sure of what he was saying. At this point, of course, the rescue boat
showed up. They boarded it, then never spoke of the failed voyage again[15].
The new boat was somewhat comfortable, but older than the first and more
rusty. Alex sat off to one of the sides, away from the others who sat in front.
They didn’t believe him, and he’d always be alone. He’d been alone before, but
not normally in the family. They were all bickering about how Daphne had taken
over the gardening duties and then killed a bush once[16].
But he wasn’t involved.
It was about ten minutes later when Daphne let slip
how, while their parent had been feverishly trying to connect two totally
unconnected things (Alex and the fire), the children had been dealing with other
issues that were, admittedly, off-stage. Everyone was reasonably surprised by
the outburst.
“What in the fuck has just happened?” Fiona looked across at
Sarah in shock.
Daphne continued. “Simple really; Stacey thinks I’m Rob, Rob
thinks I’m Stacy, and I haven’t got the cash to prove I’m either one to the
other. I couldn’t tell you anything about how I crashed your car because of
course I shouldn’t have been driving it; all of which means I’m not equipped to
deal with the fact that Stacy’s mum’s fence has a giant hole in it, because I
don’t have the money to pay her. I really didn’t want to tell you about that guy
I slept with in China, because; well, why would I want to do that? You guys have
enough stress as it is and I’m meant to be the ‘sane’ one. Not allowed to make
mistakes, it’s against the law. There’s an actual … law. (Easily changed by an
enthusiastic clergyman, or an enthusiastic dictator in disguise as a clergyman.)
I looked it up. I mean, it’s not in this country. But it’s there somewhere. And
–”
“Stop talking, Daphne.” Rick looked up from his meal. Not angry at all,
which surprised Daphne. She thought she’d have been living on the lawn by now,
if such a thing were possible in the main room of a small yacht.
“Why didn’t
you just ask us to help you?”
“Well, fuck[17].”
The family lapsed back into silence, and as a result, the boat ride felt longer
than the hour that it took to get back to shore. Each member of the family did
their own thing to pass the time. Fiona was writing a list. Over and over. Mind,
she did have motion sickness problems. She was trying to take her mind off it.
That’s all it was. The boat docked just after lunch on Boxing Day.[18]
“Thank fuck that’s over. I mean, I love my family. But, dear God sometimes I
hate them.” Daphne started one of her vlogs, with no regard for her
contradiction.
She had been home for about an hour and hadn’t yet bothered to
unpack. Priorities. Had to update the random strangers on the internet of her
situation, as you would expect from a teenager. “I should probably apologise,”
she began, and Sarah heard her from her own bedroom next door, and smiled
faintly. Not too long later, she received a few apology messages. Not enough to
make it okay, but enough to make her not mad at Daphne. That’s all that really
matters, in the end.
Rick and Fiona were somewhere else, doing a washing.
They’d have to prepare another meal soon. Or maybe they’d just have leftovers.
The Fake End.
Alex walked into a room he thought was his bedroom. But … it wasn’t. Down the hall, and turn right. That had been the way for years. But he found himself now in a room with walls of paper. Each wall had a list on it in large block capitals, of people’s names. At the top of each list was marked ‘Execution’. It was as though somebody was rote learning the list. Like Fiona had been doing. He was the only actual person here, though. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. He heard the sound from behind him, and looked around, to see a black line inching its way along the floor, like a pencil mark. 'Alex', it formed on the ground. “What the hell is this; what is happening!” Alex cried, as the line snaked towards him along the ground[19]. The Real End[20].
[1] Meet the Johnson family (not to be confused with Johnson Family TM, a body products company. Two adults and three … younger adults. I met them once, a chaotic family that you could just tell would definitely kill each other if it suited them to do so. Wait, no. That’s not the Johnsons at all, I must’ve been thinking of another family. The Johnsons were the kind of family you wish you’d grown up in. Overly complicated lives, but then whose life is simple? At least the Johnsons hadn’t done anything illegal, unlike this other family I know …
[2] You can be rude to people in a number of direct and indirect ways (looking at you, my primary school bully, and … not looking at you, person in a vehicle headed straight towards me). Seeing it so late that it becomes unavoidable, much like the twist of this story. Hang on, I write this. Nothing’s totally unavoidable I can just ‘edit’ …
[3] Impulse decisions tend to be costly. Especially if you’ve impulse-bought a bank. Of course, there could be other reasons they ‘hadn’t thought about it’ – remember the editing I talked about? Maybe this didn’t happen here; could’ve been somewhere else. I remember my first voyage on the sea. It was 1912 and we hit an iceberg … Anyway, if the Johnsons weren’t careful with steering, they’d end up like my relationship with my own family – on the rocks.
[4] I highly recommend learning things by rote. And by that I mean that I only ever learn things by rote when I’m high. Haven’t been high in a while, too stressed. I can’t stress that enough.
[5] Imagine magma being expelled from a volcano. But more forceful.
[6] At this point, you might start to notice the story changing itself to protect you from the same problems I’m currently having. The whole idea of the yacht is definitely a metaphor for something, though. How far I want to drown my sorrows. Yeah, that’s it. There are also some logic problems with the way I’ve told the story; like what father would immediately assume their child had started the fire without asking and then commit to that view? So this might not be the story that I’m actually trying to tell you at all, and my editing is a little bit wobbly in places. But it basically works.
[7] I’m sorry this story feels like it’s going nowhere at the moment. But I’m only able to tell you so much at a time, because they haven’t yet found me. Hide and seek level: expert.
[8] Three times, one for each sibling. Fiona would definitely kill them, or at least make them steer the boat, which was roughly equivalent.
[9] The family started the meal bickering like an old married couple with a vendetta, and seemed to finish it bickering like an old married couple with an axe. You might also notice the phrase ‘check how the fire was getting along’. It’s possible I didn’t edit the story properly.
[10] Everyone was lying throughout this conversation. Not dissimilar to having a sleepover, except that those are fun. Especially the ones where you play baseball. Speaking of, this story now has more strikeouts than I’ve ever gotten in any game.
[11] I recommend learning recipes by rote. Even if it involves vegetables, although I can’t think why anyone would eat such a thing.
[12] See footnote 2. Then read it, then put it in context. Then ignore it because you realise you no longer care about my story. If you’re offended by that generalisation, phone the cops and see if I care.
[13] What does this have to do with the police, I hear you ask? On the surface, almost nothing. But beneath the surface, there’s a sunk ship, like what the Johnson’s would have if they weren’t careful. Fines, it was an editing slip-up. I needed to send a version of this story to be printed and then change it on the typesetting computer. What? Oh, I mugged one of the guys for his key.
[14] Except that I am. Hehehehehehehe.
[15] How do you think this should have gone? Should Alex have been caught, or is it better that Daphne is left to struggle with her issues on her own? These are important questions that it’s worth considering – especially since not entirely dissimilar actions have left me on the run from the authorities and my family.
[16] Daphne was good at gardening, while Sarah was good at pointing out how any traditional gardener would bite through his rake after looking at one of Daphne’s creations.
[17] Often your parents won’t know how serious you think the struggles in your life are. Especially if you can handle them. Unless they were the cause of all your problems in the first place …
[18] I did say that this wasn’t the real story, didn’t I? Especially from here on, this story will show signs of being complete bullshit. Mostly because I’ve had to ram on an ending to a story that isn’t finished, and is still happening to me; as I write this while hiding under a blanket in the back of a moving cattle van. But this whole story is made up. It vaguely tells you how I came to be on the run, but doesn’t do a very good job of it. I may tell you the proper version … someday. I have used metaphors heavily, so you could work out my situation if you really wanted. But you probably don’t. So what do I care. (Turns out, I care a great deal).
[19] Now, listen. I can only keep this sarcasm up for so long – thing is, I need your help. The story I’ve told you doesn’t matter. It’s all just padding to get you to here; this is my main point and the way I have managed to smuggle this message out in a footnote nobody will ever read. The world I live in is significantly darker than my make-believe; but of course, that is the point. My family was split up after a dinner not totally dissimilar to the one I described; except that my family is … quite different from the family I described, and we weren’t aboard a boat, although our relationship certainly is … rocky. You should have been able to see that my story was a fake because of the plot holes I consciously inserted. I couldn’t exactly give you my family history because they’ve set up web censors that would detect that this was the story I wanted to tell you, if I had told it directly. I don’t have the time now to fully explain my circumstances, although I think I’ve done an okay job of summarising in the text above, much as I may loathe it. One day, I hope to be able to clarify this all for you, but for now I must continue on the run. I hope to see you again, eventually.
[20] It is a truth, universally
acknowledged, that academics don't reads footnotes, so I'm safe here.
You might be wondering who the hell I am. That’s fair enough; and at
least for now, that doesn’t matter. Well, it does, but telling you would
threaten my life. So I won’t. For now. But I will. Later. After having
tediously and sarcastically footnoted this whole document, I can now
tell you what's actually going on. See, it all started in a meeting not
particularly dissimilar to the family dinner I described in the story.
But, then, of course --
Oh, crap. They’ve found me. I’ll have to
carry on some other time. Hopefully soon. And hope they don’t find me in
the meantime. Or you. Really hope they don’t find you. That’s probably
more important, actually.
If they ask you about me or where I am,
then you can’t tell them anything. Especially don’t tell them about the
64 GB USB drive. Or where I hid their cake.
Since you asked me for a murder mystery[1],
I feel I must oblige your life choices. Much as I may disagree with
them; disagreements will come later in the story. So will a story. That
isn’t due to start yet for another … five minutes. Yes, that’s right.
This whole bit is like an early arrival for a doctor’s appointment
sitting and waiting for the thing to start. While also slightly
wondering if they’ve forgotten you exist. And knowing that they
definitely have. The year was 1918, I was 17, 16 people have heard this
story … Maybe I should stop with the reverse numbering. Which is exactly
what my mum said, just before she backed into a mathematician’s caravan.
But I digress.
My family were sat around in a small flat. My flat,
not that I hurry to take credit for it. House prices and whatnot, slight
shame at my life choices; and that’s just
what I feel about my life inside
my own head (a place with which you will hopefully become
well-acquainted). I’d never actually asked what they thought about the
book, or the flat. They were prone to overreact, disown me for taking a
house in the wrong neighbourhood … or … something.
We had finished a
meal and were sitting around discussing my latest project – a novel. And
how the house had somehow, miraculously, not caught fire during the
preparation of the meal. My brother Damien had always been bad at
cooking. Especially the two day period that he gave cooking meth a go.
They still couldn’t even go into the house to sell it. Not that it was
desirable, after what had happened …
Anyway. Wandered off again. My
mind does that.
But something happened in the present that brought me
back. There was an exasperated yell from one of my cousins as they
flicked through the book.
“You … killed the main character!”
“For
that you DIE.” Overreacting? I did tell you … And it wasn’t even the
truth, in reality they’d just sent me on the run, but that didn’t have
to protrude into this story, did it …
[2]
The first narrative shift. From first person intro to third person text. This will be a fun time. I’m sure of it. Or at least supremely confusing.
Allie thought that, too. About how she was now
hiding out, in a very small house, while people hunted her down,
claiming she’d killed someone. A
character. Not even someone
real (oh no; she’d just thought a bad thing).
Allie needed help
from someone, so she focussed really hard on the wall, until a guy in
full magic costume appeared from nowhere. Although, it should be pointed
out that if any of you are ever approached by a ‘magician’ wanting to
‘show you a trick’, then please God, don’t let them.
The guy wasn’t
much older than she was. Makes sense. She’d made him up; of course you’d
make up a character your own age. Not being able to relate to a
character from your head? That’s just preposterous.
“Who are you?”
Allie tested her creation.
“I am whoever you want me to be,” he
replied unhelpfully.
“I want you to be informative. How can I fix
this problem?” Allie asked calmly, but the calm wouldn’t last.
“My
name is Zack.”
“You’re answering the wrong question, now.”
“I
don’t care. You asked for me, you get me. And all of whatever this,” he
gestured down at himself, “is.”
“Okay, now answer my question.” She
knew she wouldn’t really get a proper answer. The cheeky-shit-type guy
she’d been handed would probably be about as helpful as a gun in a
knife fight knife in a gun fight.
The magician guy rattled
through several highly implausible scenarios. Rattled, because he was
twiddling a lone maraca in between his fingers. Allie watched with some
fascination; but mostly contempt. Waited for him to finish.
While she
waited, she thought about maths. Like pi. And pastry. Like pie. Not even
paying attention to the story.
He finished the most recent iteration
of his clearly-at-least-a-little-bit-made-up story, and turned back
around; his facial expression asked Allie a number of questions.[3]
But together, they eventually figured out what
they’d do. They were gonna go to a dinner party at a flat down the hall,
in the 1920s. That was the magician’s plan. Allie didn’t have the heart
to tell him that his whole idea was silly. And unrealistic.
So they
went anyway.
She spent the next hour getting ready, and the guy just
vanished back in to thin air. He was a magician, after all. He could do
that. She chose her outfit without paying much attention to it; she’d
never cared for fashion, especially not the fashions of non-current time
periods.
Allie arrived at the dinner party ten minutes late. The
butler peered at her over his glasses, making it absolutely obvious that
he had not looked at his guest list. “Allie, is it?” he croaked, while
she looked around at the many people in the hall behind her.[4]
She brushed off the butler’s attempts at administration, and shouldered
her way into the throng of people. There was a guy with nibbles
somewhere. Find, stash, retreat. The nibbles, or the attached gentleman;
Allie wasn’t too bothered. That was the plan in her head. In practice,
it came somewhat closer to tripping over a well-dressed gentleman’s
shoe, then falling on to the floor, and making an idiot of herself.
She even saw the gentleman with the nibbles look away in second-hand
embarrassment.
But hey, she’d found him, and that was something.
Picking herself up off the floor, she realised she was in the centre of
the room, and could properly look around, for the first time. What
looked like inflatable chandeliers hung from the ceiling (there’s a pop
culture reference, if anyone wants to take it). Or maybe they were real
and Allie was just not … remembering … them properly.
People whirled
about the room. Whether they were dancing to some music Allie couldn’t
hear, or just really bad at
walking in straight lines, she wasn’t sure. Or all on Segways? Either
way she’d got swept up in a dance-not-dance with three different men by
the time she’d found a table she could sit at.
As if by magic, the
nibbles guy showed up next to her. “I saw you before,” he murmured.
Trying to be sexy? Not sure.
“Yeah, yeah, it’s a new dance I made
up.”
“Called the Splat. Yes, I’ve heard of it. You almost style it
out. Tell me, what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”
“I
won’t be doing with any of that crap.” Allie stood up to leave, and only
then did she actually look at her conversation sparring partner.
“What do you mean, ‘in a place like this’?”
“I mean that you
shouldn’t be here, because … well … here shouldn’t be … here.” The guy
stumbled through the sentence.
“What do you mean. Like, I’ve made it
up?”
“Well, I wouldn’t have said that. But I didn’t. So yeah, pretty
much.”
“Tell me who you are.” Allie was desperate for information,
and she dragged the nibbles guy by the bowtie out of the hall. Nobody
stopped her. Logical, if you think about it.
“Why do you know things
straight away? Things I’ve never told you, and things you shouldn’t
know?”
Zack, or at least that was the name on his nameplate, beckoned
her into a room. “I can explain …” he whispered, pushing at a pull door
before realising his mistake. Wait. Zack. Oh. He was the magician guy.
Explains it.
“Talk quickly.” Allie whispered back, tersely. Only to
open the door to the room herself, and see the butler dead on the floor.[5]
“Or what,” Zack questioned, before following Allie’s gesture to the
ground. “Oh, right.” He paused. Gathering breath.
“First they concoct
a crappy cover story about me killing a character, and now
this?” Indignant. Wrong
reaction.
“Don’t look at me,” deadpanned Zack, “I’m made up. Not sure
how this is supposed to go.”
Allie knelt down to examine the corpse.
“Yeah … he’s definitely not well, is he?”
“He’s fucking dead, you
moron.”
“Shut up, you’re imaginary.”
“Imaginary, but not
irrelevant. Imaginary numbers really fuck with engineering.”
“Isn’t
imaginary numbers what you get off girls?”
“Well, yes. Because I’m …
imaginary?”
“But the corpse on the floor isn’t imaginary.” Allie
smacked the conversation back on course.
“Yes. I guess we should
probably try and figure out how he died.”
Stopping the party was easy
enough.
Pause.
See? Easy. Then you could rotate around the
immobile and slightly pixelated images of party guests at your leisure.
Allie and Zack worked their way around the party, asking people
about the butler, and getting nowhere. Mostly because they’d organised
it so that the people moved around
them, rather than the normal way. There wasn’t anything overly
incriminating. Not immediately, anyway. But over time, it became
apparent that the butler had been involved in some shady stuff. Like
hiding behind trees. They insinuated that the butler had conveniently
fallen to cover something odd. But nobody could be more specific.
Because it probably wasn’t real.
After about an hour, Zack and Allie
ended up looking down at the dead body. Again.
“This might be a key
into what he’s hiding,” Zack said, as he braced to remove the rug;
probably thinking he could do that party trick.
“Get on with it,
then. Stop bloody showing off.” Allie wasn’t amused. Zack smiled up at
her. Arrogance?
He pulled a rug away from underneath the butler’s
corpse[6].
He found writing on the floor underneath. Might have been there before
he pulled the rug up, but it also could have been very, very imaginary.
Neither Allie nor Zack will ever know. Or maybe they do and they’re
just being deliberately cagey about what actually happened? We’ll never
know. Basically nobody will ever know anything because nothing is real
and everybody is dying.
If everybody’s dying, then what does one
butler matter?
Except if that butler had been involved in something
dodgy – a drug smuggling ring, as revealed by the rug-pull.
So
someone had wanted the butler dead.
After thinking that, Allie felt
guilty; as the writer, she had wanted the butler dead.
“Didn’t you want him dead?” Zack
had the same thought, and looked at Allie, forming an understanding of
the case.
“At only one … point[7]”.
Allie replied in a sheepish manner.
Click. It wasn’t a sound as
such, just a noise. Then …
Railway tracks. But there was smoke so it
wasn’t … modern. Allie didn’t have time to take in her surroundings
before
she noticed some idiot jeering and making gestures at her
while she walked. He wasn’t close, he wasn’t a threat.[8]
She knew that because, on closer inspection, it was Zack. And he was
holding some paper.
“So I found out that the butler was involved in a
drug ring.”
“You mean he had it up his ass?”
“Well, that’s not how
I’d put it; but … no. Absolutely wrong.”
“So why are we standing at a
points intersection?”
“Because I needed to speak to one of the rail
maintenance engineers to see when the train the butler took to get to
the house arrived.”
“And he helped you?”
“Not with the question I
actually asked him, no. He was more preoccupied with the drugs. He was
high.”
“And he told you who to look for?”
“No, he was very cagey
about the whole thing. I couldn’t say if that was because he had
something to hide, or …”
“Because he was in a cage?” Zack ignored
Allie’s dirty look. “It always is. Always.”
“Oh, there’s a guy,” Zack
pointed out a guy across the rails. He looked like a computer scientist
for some reason.[9]
Whether that was a compliment or an insult was … subject to
interpretation. Allie interpreted this as a compliment. Someone like,
say; you, would maybe see it as an insult.
They walked across the
rails and spoke to the guy. He was a security guy who normally sat
behind a desk. Technology, et cetera. Computer scientist, see?
He’d
seen something on the system. A guy sneaking around. Mostly for reasons
of … plot? Maybe a small amount of intelligence on his part? There were
boot prints around the tracks, and the guy thought someone had moved
something. Although most of the reason he thought that was the massive
tarpaulin covering a large package that had been abandoned in the ditch
nearby.
“What’s in the package?” Allie asked.
“Not allowed to look
in there, mostly for story reasons. But also evidence laws and such.
It’s suspicious and will be seized.”
“Like someone with their dick
out in public?”
“I wouldn’t recommend seizing those.”
“There are
some things you probably should seize, though.”
“Yeah, I have some
examples.”
“Like?”
Zack thought about his reply before speaking.
“I left pineapple juice on the windowsill, then drank it and shat
myself. It was at a cash machine.”[10]
It could be theoretically possible to change location while he spoke and
Allie wouldn’t notice. Mostly because she would be firmly stuck in the
world inside her head, and very liable to walk into things.
Pop.
Summer in Hawaii.[11]
See? Hardly noticed the shift.
But it wasn’t a beach in Hawaii; that
would be too easy. Allie was on a submarine, and she had begun to figure
out that the butler had used the Navy as a cover for a smuggling ring
that had let millions of dollars’ worth of illicit supplies into the
country. Maybe someone had found out and tried to stop it.
But the
fact that Allie had even thought that means it isn’t the answer.
Meanwhile, in another part of the military base[12],
Zack was beginning to piece the case together. The package at the
railway that had been confiscated was an arms cache – that is go say
that the butler had been involved in an organ pedalling ring; on a
pushbike, probably. Not entirely dissimilar to an adultery ring, but
that’s not a relevant detail to this story.
Allie had about half a
book of notes at this point. She had stopped to write down part of her
investigation. She noticed someone step out from the shadows. She didn’t
think he wanted her to see him.[13]
It was Zack, and he didn’t want anyone to see him. He was still
trying to discover who had killed the butler and why.
He wasn’t
really getting anywhere, although he’d narrowed a list of ten suspects
down to twelve. Yeah, he really wasn’t getting anywhere.
Lucky for
him, Allie had a record of all of her discoveries that they could use as
evidence. She’d been keeping a journal that, due to what she was
documenting in the journal, made very little sense. She might edit it,
then publish it one day. Wouldn’t want the slack-jawed public to see
her edit markups, amirite?They met up just after dinner on one
of the days. She wasn’t sure what day it was, but that didn’t matter.
“Have you found anything?”
“You mean, have I found any drugs? No, I
haven’t; and who’s asking?” He glanced shiftily from left to right.
“You need to get back to it then. My life literally depends on this.”
“Metaphorically.”
“Literally.”
“Metaphorically.” He repeated one
time too many, and Alliie tried to get him to go away. “Tell me a really
good joke, and I’ll listen to your story.”[14]
Whatever he said next, it wasn’t worth her time. So she pushed him away
to get more information.
A man with a suit put his hand on her
shoulder. Their time for investigating had run out. Even though she
could just … increase the time by adding another page to the story.
Or Zack could try to solve the problem by stabbing the man in a suit
with a knife he’d pulled from … somewhere?
“Like a gun in a knife
fight.” Zack answered, as he spun the knife he’d used.
“Except that
it was literally neither of those things. That was using a knife for no
reason.”
They looked around, and they were in the dining room with
the whole family, and about ten policemen. Even though none of that had
been true a minute before.
“Oh, I see what’s happened here …” Allie
mused, as she walked around the room full of mismatched people; her
family wearing ball dresses and 19th-Century gowns, and the
cops with early 21st-Century police uniforms and hats.
“So,” Allie said, as she walked around and explained. “A mystery writer
would have made the butler’s life look interesting, by alluding to a
shady past that they could never quite follow through on. A mystery
writer would then need a compelling way to motivate the murder; if the
butler had been in charge of a large and sophisticated smuggling ring in
many locations, and going back hundreds of years – perhaps Allie’s
narrative had been influenced by her preconceptions – then maybe they’d
gotten too good at their jobs. And a job had started to go wrong. Not
even for any actual reasons. Just because the plot had dictated that
somebody had to die, and then someone else be held accountable. An
accountant, perhaps?” She finished, having run out of breath.
“So …
you’re guilty for murdering your characters? Which was our whole point
at the beginning?” A family member was confused. A brief silence.
Followed by …
“Food anyone?”
Zack called over the stunned silence. Then he pulled a chicken from an
oven that appeared in the middle of nowhere[15].
And they ate it, because it was food, and it was there.
And he gave some money to a random guy; then all
the cops disappeared. He looked around as if that were supposed to be a
secret. But it didn’t surprise Allie.[16]
He’d illustrated that he could just … make things happen.
He
conducted a full analysis of the situation.
“Seems to me that you’ve
just been cleared of murder,” he noted.
“I wish. It’s still in my
head though.”
“Oh yup. And once you’ve let an idea get in your head,
it … stays there? Or could you get it out?”
“I tend to forget most
things, if that’s what you mean?”
“Or do you just change how they
look?”
“What do you mean?”
“If we carry on this way, we could just
force a reset, so to speak, of the universe. To totally absolve us of
these murders. Or you could carry on the predetermined course, and go to
prison?”
“There’s definitely a right and a wrong answer to that.”
Allie stood up, having finished the meal.
“No, I’m being serious. You
need to decide; the cops will be here within ten minutes. We need to
decide what to do.”
“No rush,” Allie was surprised at Zack’s
insistence on the point. “I can just stop time,” she waved an arm and
the background froze. It flickered occasionally, nearly becoming a
uniform shade of green like what they use in films.
“Eventually I’ll
have to face up for this.” Allie stated into the frozen room.
“Maybe.
But certainly not straight away.”
“Morality’s so annoying sometimes.”
“Why have problems like that when you can just,” he snapped his fingers,
“not have them at all?”[17]
An empty dining room. Empty when Allie and Zack
showed up there anyway.
After they ‘arrived’, they were there, and so the room wasn’t empty.
There were police there, too. The cops had been put there before Allie
and Zack had joined the story. So much for the snap-delete that Zack had
just tried to do.
“What’s the deal with the investigation?” Allie
asked. The cops looked back at her, surprised.
“You actively ran from
the investigation; so why would we tell you how it went?”
“Because I
asked and it makes plot sense to do so at this point.”
“Jenkins was
murdered, as we discovered earlier in the story –”
Wait, what;
thought Allie. Only I can do that. And Zack.
“And after murdering
Jenkins you had to held responsible for your careless actions.”
“Careless? I was just writing a story. It’s not that serious.”
“Except that it is,” the cop replied while he made notes on a pad.
Allie looked across at Zack.
Her time had finished. They were going
to get caught. Then she would go to prison, and … well … she wasn’t sure
if she wanted that or not. She knew she needed to be held accountable,
but she … didn’t have to be.
She made eye contact with Zack, then he
nodded. The cop changed to an Industrial-Revolution-era engineer,
complete with cotton shirt, cap and Brummy accent. This particular
iteration of the character was mid-way through a lecture on Electricity,
while simultaneously eating his lunch.
“Electricity meant we could do
many things at once,” he said while eating, talking and jogging; and
therefore making a valid point but entirely missing it.[18]
“So they framed me for the murder by placing a
photograph of me at the crimescene”.[19]
Allie had explained this to the cops and it seemed like valid evidence
when they showed up. They were from the Spanish Inquisition. The desert
sun beat down on the firing squad as they set Allie up. She looked
around there wasn’t much to see apart from some ruggedly handsome
scenery. But enough about the soldiers that had been tasked with killing
her.
They were high up, or at least she thought so. Above the clouds,
it was raining in the city they’d come from. Presumably they’d just
leave her here after they killed her.
“Alex? You’re under arrest for
the murder of Patrick Jenkins,” one of the Inquisition-era guards said,
in an entirely more English accent than it should have been.
“Wait,
what?” Allie was confused. Wasn’t this the Spanish Inquisition? And
Alex? What was happening?
“Uh, buddy? Where do you think you are?”
One of the others lowered his weapon.
Allie rubbed her eyes. “No …
idea … I thought …”
She didn’t make it to the end of her sentence.
One of the other firing squad guys pulled his trigger and her world went
dark.
They all lived happily ever after[20].
Apart from Allie, of course. But we’ll get to that.
[1] I am aware you did not ask me for this. I will get back to my story in due course, just settle down and read the parts that I have clearly made up as I went along, which isn’t this bit. This bit is fact. The text above does not matter. Well, actually that’s a lie. They relate as tangentially to my own situation as the events of the previous story. But it doesn’t matter-matter. I would say the particle physicists in charge of the Large Hadron collider made that joke, too. At some point, and then a different point in a parallel universe.
[2] In a parallel universe, you might say that the story had actually happened. But then, you might also say that there was a parallel universe where a family had a meal on a boat that seemed to be perpetually on fire. Or maybe both stories were made up and only had elements of truth in them. Or, possibly, there was no truth in the story at all. It is fiction, after all, that’s kind of the point.
[3] Question; is this the truth? Or is it a lie? Or was the other story the truth? Or was that the lie? Or is it all true? Or is it all false? The questions pile up like ships on an iceberg – what, that could happen.
[4] As if he hadn’t just pretended not to look at the guest list, then peeked at her highlighted name while nobody was looking. With Perkins, it was always the things he did while people weren’t looking that caused the most trouble, and asked the most questions.
[5] I really wish he hadn’t died, there. It would have saved me lots of trouble. But the clever thing with this is that I’m in control here. And people really shouldn’t let me be in control – the Wallace’s had figured that out the hard way by now. And I would figure it out an even harder way slightly later on. But hey, spoilers; right?
[6] And … rug pull number one. What even is this story about, again? Oh, yeah; that’s right, it doesn’t matter. So off on a total tangent we go …
[7] A tangent is a line that intersects a curve at only one point. In this case, that point would be the first sentence of the paragraph, which is the only connected bit to what has come before. Question; if the plot remains largely the same, but the setting completely changes, then what does that mean? Does it change the story at all? Conjecture: No, the story can stay exactly the way it was. But they could find me in the mansion, and they can’t find me in Ancient Rome. A guy did find me, quite soon after. But he wasn’t related; at least I don’t think he was …
[8] Some people are like that everywhere. Doesn’t seem to matter what you do or where you go, there’ll probably be a dickhead insisting that the world will end. But it won’t, unless I say it will. Anyhow, I got as far away from him as possible, as quickly as I could. There was something odd about him … don’t know what …
[9] Oh, I know what it was. The tie. It was decorated with 1’s. Very odd. 1’s but no 0’s. Need 1’s and 0’s to earn money. Well, a 1 and many 0’s.
[10] I wear a tie, therefore I am a banker. Foolproof logic.
[11] Foolproof storytelling logic: people won’t notice if you just casually change the location.
[12] Whoops, I appear to have changed the location again, on a whim … I really should learn not to do that …
[13] That guy again. He’s following me, but how? This isn’t possible. I’m literally making this up, how’s he in my head? GET OUT OF MY HEAD. Unless you have good jokes. Then you can stay.
[14] ‘Knock, knock? Who’s there? The police. Oh, shit, what have I done now?’ He probably though that was a good joke.
[15] You have to consider why I’m dropping hints about these specific things. It might help you piece together what really happened if you add up all my hints in both stories. I have told you the truth. I’m just deliberately telling incorrect versions of it.
[16] Oh, yeah. I’d known for a reasonable while how crooked he was. (And I don’t just mean that his legs were different lengths …). He’d given me hints that he worked for my parents about two hours before. You remember? You were there … But how could he have known about my parents? They didn’t even exist in this universe. Unless that didn’t matter – and it didn’t seem to. He’d known them anyway.
[17] Wait, what just happened? I hear you ask. He knew how to respond to the situation as if he could influence the outcome, and in so doing; he influenced the outcome. He shouldn’t have known about the cheating ring, or the fact there wasn’t a way for the police to get to the boat before dinner. The only way he’d know that is … if he somehow knew about the other chapter. And how could that be? Oh, well. Maybe best not to think too hard about it. Or maybe thinking too hard about things is exactly the point, and it leads to answers for questions that shouldn’t be there in the first place.
[18] If you don’t know that what you’re doing can’t be done, then anything is possible. And if you can’t think of things you’re not doing, then you need to slow down and have a rest – for your own good. Which came off like a threat. It’s not like you’d be charged with murder … is it?
[19] Foolproof storytelling logic: random endings that make no sense are good for business. Because people immediately become busy trying to fix it and cure their Unresolved Narrative Stress.
[20]
Apparently people like that sort of ending. I don’t really, but
‘give people what they want’, etc. As opposed to earlier endings
designed deliberately to piss people off. Speaking off …
Again,
I apologise with the (in this case quite literal) smoke and mirrors
in my story. There was a murder in my family and I’m still running
from that fact (both literally and emotionally, if you can believe
…). I’m hiding in a budget hotel room at the moment and trying not
to think about what caused the stain on the floor in front of me.
But I haven’t paid for it, so I suppose I’ll be discovered
eventually. I normally am. See, the thing is, my brother became a
high-ranking member of the Government after the family murder
(which, I flatter myself, isn’t a sentence often used …) and has,
for reasons I can’t yet fully articulate, issued a warrant for my
arrest. And he’ll probably have me killed, because I know too much.
This tends to be the way with experts and the like, doesn’t it?
There’s a banging at the door, so I better get out the window before
I’m discovered. And then I need to find a new place to live and a
more sustainable way of surviving past tomorrow morning. Then, and
only then, will I even consider telling you my story. Although I’ve
already written the basis of it down. I managed to condense the
whole thing into one sentence; hopefully that will get past the
authorities. I’m so sorry, but I don’t have the time right now to
tell you what It is.
A[1] sad[2] and[3] lonely[4] woman[5] fights[6] against[7] the[8] establishment[9] in[10] secret[11] for[12] years[13], only[14] to[15] eventually[16] destroy[17] it[18] with[19] one[20] sentence[21].
[1] Well, hello there. Here we are; you, me and an empty expanse of white paper I can fill with footnotes. Why write this exclusively in footnotes when I could use normal text; I hear you ask? Well; it keeps me focussed on what each passage will be about. This one, for example, springboards off the word ‘A’ and I have to firstly, begin the story, as ‘A’ is the first letter of the alphabet, and then I have to describe myself to you. You do not have a clear picture of me yet, but I am certain you will by the end of this story. My name is Allie. I am a friend.
[2] Sad because I’ve had to lie, you see. And because I’m on my own. You’ll notice very quickly that I haven’t really told you the truth in either of the previous two chapters; but I haven’t lied to you either. What really happened was this there was a murder, on a boat, at Christmas. Let’s not worry about details yet. So, the first chapter is accurate because it shows the location and time of year. The second chapter is also accurate because it shows that there was a murder, and some of the specifics of it – even if it is through a smoskescreen of insanity. Everything else is either symbolism for one of the things proven to be accurate in the other chapter; or is made up. Lots of this is made up. I’ve been told I’m batshit insane. On dates and stuff, y’know?
[3] Chapter Three: The Hoax. What’s the difference between logical ‘and’ and linguistic ‘and’? There isn’t one. Damn. That was a short lecture. But logical and linguistic ‘or’ … that’s a whole field day. Because logical ‘or’ means A is true, or B is true, or A and B is true. Linguistic ‘or’ does not contain this last distinction. This would prove problematic for Zack. He’s still around, yeah. But not as attractive as he was five minutes ago when he was in my head, even though he’s still in my head. Zack was trying to convince a roomful of people that he and I hadn’t killed Jenkins, the butler. Zack wasn’t succeeding, mostly because he wasn’t real. People thought he was wrong because he hadn’t considered the fact that both things were not able to be true, in the way most people understood the word ‘or’. He gave me the papers the butler had been tasked with hiding (or I thought he had given me that), but when I looked at them I realised I’d been reading the paper wrong all along; because he’d shown me a different piece of paper to the one I thought I’d seen. It actually said:
[4] She didn’t do it.
Please calm down, leave her
alone;
Now go and get fucked
[5] I apologise for the swearing in the previous
footnote. Not very ladylike, huh? Well, fuck you. Although that
actually links back to my earlier point … in a really loose way.
Zack and I had made some progress on our case – we could prove that
I hadn’t killed Jenkins. Zack suggested that because he wasn’t real,
he could argue that he himself had committed the crime and the case
would be thrown out. But then I would go to prison. So we needed to
find another way that he might have died, and then manipulate the
story that the cops had been told, so that this new cause could be
argued as the cause of death.
But how? Well, for a start, I
didn’t think I’d done it. Unless I had … I mean, my main confidante
was imaginary. And very attractive. But you’ll have to take my word
for it.
Take my word for it.
Maybe that would work …
[6] Teenager Attempts To Convince Authorities She
Isn’t Guilty Of Murder Because ‘I Didn’t Do It And You Can Take My
Imaginary Friend’s Word For It.’
In local news – although
local to where, nobody knows – a teenager has attempted to persuade
authorities of her innocence of murder by assuring them that her
imaginary friend thinks she’s innocent, so therefore she must be. We
weren’t present at the scene, but it is assumed that the cops
laughed in her face. We attempted to contact Ms Johnson for comment,
although she was unavailable due to scheduling difficulties arising
from appearing in a different part of this story.
[7] Chapter Seven: The Uprising
Allie looked on in
dismay. Her brilliant master plan had failed.
“So we try
something else,” Zack said, from over her shoulder.
“What else?
There’s nothing else. We can’t prove we didn’t do it … because we
did. I remember it. I’m out of ideas.”
“Well, we could try and
convince everyone that the Government is corrupt. That might divert
their attention for long enough, so that we could get away from
here.”
“But then where would we go?” Allie asked, seeing the
start of a plan.
“Away. To, umm …” Zack paused, thinking.
“Tokyo.” He settled on a place.
“Stop right there.” They hadn’t noticed the cop before now,
because the story had demanded they not notice him.
“Now I have a
record of a confession, and a knowledge of your plan. There’s no way
you’ll get away with this.” He uttered the extremely clichéd line,
then pulled out a megaphone that emitted an evil laugh sound-effect.
“What? Oh I just stopped by a cliché shop. Now, excuse me, I have
some news for my bosses …” he walked off.
“Change of plan. We
need to get that recording.”
“Did you have a plan in mind?”
“What? Oh, plan … I think so? But I don’t really trust my mind at
the moment. Would you mind coming up with one?”
[8] You stand at one end of a long corridor, that
looks like it’s come straight from a 1980’s art-deco expo. Except
that you sort of know it hasn’t, because your head likes to play
tricks on the rest of your body. You’re faintly certain that you
need to get the policeman’s recording of a confession, but you can’t
really move; like you’re trying to walk through jelly. But maybe
it’s all in your head. There doesn’t seem to be any jelly anywhere
around.
The cop was somewhere on board the ship, and you’d only
have to find him, club him to death with something, and then the
problem would be solved. In a manner of speaking.
But you
shouldn’t do that. Because murder is wrong. Or that’s what your
parents would’ve told you. They might have been lying.
You
started by searching through the cop’s room for his phone, to try
and delete the recording manually. But it wasn’t there, of course.
It was on his person. So you’d have to confront him. Luckily, he’s
in the main room at the top of the corridor. Easy find. Now to
convince him to release the recording …
[9] Chapter Nine: The Magnussen Record(ing)
The
establishment is quite particular about a number of things. One of
those things is bribing police. Apparently you’re not allowed to do
it – Allie found this out the hard way, and was threatened with more
criminal charges that would stick; unlike the caution she’d received
for gluing herself to her teacher’s car in protest at high school.
So she tried another way. She tried talking to him. The cop’s name
was Magnussen. Or that’s all Allie was given.
“Will you let me
take the tape?”
“No.” Not budging. Could’ve been glued to the
floor. Innovative solution?
“Why not?”
“Because the stpry
dictates that you’ll get the tape off me and I’ll have to fight you
for a bit before then.”
“Wait, so you can change the story too?”
“As far as this is concerned, this is my life. So yes, I can do that
just by changing my actions.
She had the tape. Of her confession.
To delete as she wanted.
But she’d listen to it first, just to
see how much they’d recorded.
It played quietly, like it had been
recorded at a distance. She wrote down what she heard.
“And you
accept the charges?” the cop was saying to his suspect. “Yes, but if
I give you this …” shuffle, shuffle, shuffle, “will they go away?”
“No.”
“I’m a member of the Green-fingered Group.”
“What, the
gardeners?”
“N – no. The other Green-fingered Group.”
“Oh, well why didn’t you say that in the first place.”
[10] Chapter Ten: Into The Secret Society. The
conspiracy I’ve been hiding is this; the Australian army are not
allowed to carry guns. Probably because they all drink far too much.
In the heat, can you blame them?
So instead they carry
pitchforks.
Oh, and I should say; I don’t actually mean the
Autralian Army. I just want … the people who read this to think
I mean the Australian Army.
Zack and I had a way to prove I was
innocent. We’d need to infiltrate the secret society, and then
gather evidence. That would be good enough. The cops wouldn’t be
able to argue with evidence of their own corruption.
There was a
list of names of the people in the society. We’d have to get
ourselves on there by manipulating it somehow. Probably just by
imagining edits to it. Then we’d rote-learn the edited list until
our fixed version made more sense than the original. Then we’d be in
the society. So it was easy. Well, tedious. But nevermind about
that. We did the thing, and got on the list. The first meeting
wasn’t very interesting; it’s possible the members of the
Green-fingered Group still had vague memories that we shouldn’t have
been there. We recorded the whole meeting for our own evidence, and
took notes of important details.
But, sitting down after the
meeting, we realised the disk we’d recorded to was corrupted.
Surprise, surprise.
[11] Chapter Eleven: A Patchy Numbering System
The
disk was corrupt. I stared at the stupid thing in shock. I’d worked
so hard to get it and it got me nowhere. But I needed a way to prove
my innocence. I was innocent. I must have been. There would be
someone else who’d done this.
I walked through the rooms at the
hotel where the secret society was gathered. Although the numbering
system was really crap. There would be something here. If not here,
then nowhere. Outside the second-to-last room (number unknown),
something landed in my hand. A 64 GB USB drive. Presumably with
evidence n it I could use. It would free me, clear me. I was so
close …
Where was I? Oh …
A USB landed in my palm, then an
old woman’s hand stuck out and stopped me. “Just remember what I
told you when you left the shop.” It was Fiona, my ex-boss’ wife.
Well, ex-wife, because Rick Jenkins had been dead for the last three
hours. Oh, yeah. I should have said he was my boss. How she’d got
here, I had no idea. But he was, because it made plot-sense.
How
did it make plot sense? Let me explain ...
[12] Let me take you back … to the shop. I kept the
receipt, so they should just swap you straight over.
This is what
I think happened, and it started in a shop. While I was wishing I
could be somewhere else; because no shop worker will ever work in a
shop for very long without wishing they weren’t working in a blasted
shop. Especially if they’re in a warzone, those blasted shops in
blasted warzones get … blasted. Which explains most refugee
situations, now I think of it.
Rick was my supervisor, and Fiona
was his partner in crime. They had spent the last ten years
siphoning money through the company, and not paying tax. Then I
found out how fucked up they were what they’d been doing, and
had to stop it. So I shut them down. Carefully planned, and I
resigned just in time; then they got shut down.
But they did it
again, so I applied to work with them again.
And tried to do the
same thing; leading to the hotel we were in, at the time we were
there.
This whole thing may seem exaggerated and stupid, but it
was carefully planned. Carefully. I’d really thought about this. I
promise. All I had to do was wait for time to pass. Or, travel down
the Passage of Time, if you like.
[13] Chapter Thirteen: The Passage of Time
I hear
what you’re saying; this is getting progressively more manic and
insane. And I get you; but I must be able to prove my innocence
somehow. Everything we’ve done so far has been rebuffed or
laughed at. There must be a way to prove I didn’t murder Jenkins.
So I kept ducking and dodging the cops in their investigation, and
finding more inventive hiding spots within a shockingly confined
space; one time I had to nestle into a story in one of the rooms. On
the run without having anywhere to go. I think I did quite well to
not get caught.
But eventually, I had to move on and face up to
the fact I couldn’t prove I hadn’t done the murder in a way that
would be believed. I had to own it and accept my punishment.
Temporarily.
Zack and I had devised a plan that, eventually,
we would expose the cops for the corrupt authority that they were.
Mind you, maybe I am no less of a corrupt authority; just a
different meaning of the word. Given that I’m writing a story –
yeah, you get it.
Turns out there is an actual passage in the
hotel called the Passage of Time.
I was made to walk down it to
accept my fate.
Well, it was a hallway, with rooms off it. So I
made about as much ceremony from the thing as would be reasonably
expected given that at no point was the Passage empty, and I bumped
into an oblivious idiot every five minutes.
Just like life, huh?
I’d ask Zack for help every so often. To try and think of a way out.
But he wasn’t listening to me anymore. I had to do this now.
So I
kept walking.
And writing things down. Maybe someone else
would be able to help. Somewhere. Who knows? I hadn’t thought it
through.
At the end of the Passage of Time, the final cop was
waiting. The boss-level villain. But he didn’t bother with
questions, he just smacked Allie over the head while reading her
rights. “This is your final sentence.” He said.
[14] January; check the plan – it might not even work,
check the murder investigation to make sure it’s not close to
catching me, check the plan again – who would seriously be so easily
swayed by a total rewrite of history; February; Check the USB is
still secure – it has something on it but Zack won’t tell me what,
check that Zack’s okay – he’s not answering my calls and given that
we share a brain – that is worrying; March; get ready to march into
action (ba dum tss), brief Zack on the upcoming upheaval, make sure
the plan will actually work; April; checked the USB, read the
sentence.
All you really have is lists; like the list of
prisoners I was now on, or the list of people to be executed I
wasn’t sure if I was on …
[15] Chapter Fifteen: The Best Drug Trip Ever. A sheep
with two heads, two bodies and eight legs. It was a tourist
attraction until its death in 1928 … and 1934. The Green-fingered
Group did know how to talk rubbish. And compost.
And they knew
how to lock Allie in a room. This tends to happen in films when
you’re on the right trach, the bad guys lock you in a room to stop
you making discoveries. So you imagine yourself out of the prison.
And they put you back in. You get out, and sent back in. You get
out, and sent back in. You get out, and sent back in. You get out,
and sent back in. You get out, and sent back in. Eventually you
begin to wonder; why are you in prison instead of solving the story
– maybe you’re guilty of the thing you’re trying to prove yourself
innocent of. Or, maybe the dragon that’s leaning against the door is
just a by-product of some drugs in your system and isn’t actually
there at all.
What if the way you see the world is a lie?
What
if you’ve told yourself a very different truth to the actual truth
because the alternative is to accept that you’re not ‘good’.
What
if you thought the boat trip was a family situation, but that was
wrong? What if there wasn’t a murder in the 1920’s?
But you can’t
have totally rewritten your whole worldview, can you?
But people
don’t check on a fire to ‘see how it’s going’, do they? Murder
investigation; maybe.
And then you have more of the powder the
guards bring you. Because why wouldn’t you. It was there …
Allie
had nothing to do except drugs which somehow showed up. So she used
them. Because it was easy to. They were provided and everything.
‘Cake’ they called it. Something to do with not really being allowed
drugs in a prison. Her habit got pretty bad, but nobody bothered her
and she stayed in her room. Being this jacked-up, why would you
leave?
She wrote, heaps. Pages and pages of indecipherable
nonsense. And she was okay with that.
She was generally left
undisturbed to her ravings. But one of the guards talked to her when
he felt brave enough. He had read some of her writing, and was,
briefly, very worried about the fate of the scrawny, manic woman he
saw sitting in front of him.
He said, “Dude. Where do you think
we are?”
He didn’t get a response from her.
“It’s just that
we’re still on the damn boat.”
[16] I don’t mean to gloat
And take that grin off
your face
But we’re still on the boat
And there’s a hole in
your case
It’s not the literal hole in the floor
Or even
something which was there before
But you overstretched, and
spread yourself thin,
So with simple logic, we can just do you
in;
Our case is watertight, not like this boat
And I’m sorry
that I said I would not gloat, but
We’ll prove our case before
the end of the day
Our team is doing their best
Now I’m duty
bound to say;
Allie Johnson, You’re Under Arrest
[17] A legal judgment of the case against me follows.
I am pretty sure it’s accurate.
Johnson v. Narrative Police
[2017] SHIPHC 001
ALIAS, CJ. (It’s definitely a fake name).
FACTS: [1] The defendant, R Jenkins, masterminded a smuggling ring
leading to the smuggling of many rings throughout a ring of
countries that the ring-smuggling smuggling ring smuggled rings to.
He was also guilty of significant periods of fraud and being
murdered. The defendant, Allie Johnson, is only guilty of doing
what’s right. But maybe I’m biased.
[2] The defendant, Allie
Johnson, acted alone in killing the man to steal the jewels
currently in his possession. It is a material fact to the case that
they were stashed in a cloth bag. Allie had known the defendant from
her workplace, obvious because of the official record stating she
worked there, but also because she killed him while at a staff
Christmas party on board a boat. It has been implied by the defence
team that while this may be the official version of events, this is
not a story Allie agrees with.
[3] It is also relevant that Allie
Johnson is not of a sound mind.
MURDER: [4] Murder can be defined
as culpable homicide where the offender meant to cause death, or
injure in such a way that death would be caused (whether or not
death would actually be caused ) as per the Crimes Act s167[a-e].
[5] It is argued that this definition of murder could also apply
to fictitious persons*, and can therefore be applied to the
defendant’s treatment of her victim. This may not seem to be
relevant. However, it is worth note that the defendant has attempted
to manipulate the public record by changing the facts relating to
her guilt. Therefore, referring to the plaintiff as a fictional
character will nullify all of the defendant’s meddling with the
truth, and ensure an accurate prosecution.
CONCLUSION: I find
that, too often, characters are being killed in books with little or
no consequence. As such I am moved to find the defendant guilty.
[This is still about the fiction – is it real? I need to get things
straight in my head …]
ORDER: Three dozen cheeseburgers and many
large fries, because I won’t be able to eat this in prison.
*
Editor note: This is inaccurate in real life, obviously.
[18] Imagine it.
Imagine a new world.
Imagine a
new world where I hadn’t been convicted of murder.
Actually, no.
Don’t do that. That would probably make it true. I don’t want to
give you that power, because only I should have it.
Imagine a
world where I had been convicted, and I had to live with it. Seeing
Zack regularly, because he was the only person in the world who
still cared enough about me to actually visit. Imagine that I could
appeal the charges because, while there was evidence to convict,
there wasn’t enough evidence to keep me in prison. So I got
out, then I met up with Zack. Imagine we were happy. Imagine we
could be together. Even though he wasn’t sure at first. He grew to
be.
Imagine we were happy, in a house, with a family. Imagine the
sunlight streaming through open windows.
Imagine cooked meals,
and hastily prepared school lunches.
Imagine updating the family
scoreboard.
Imagine the Christmas dinners.
Imagine living.
Imagine a new world.
Imagine.
Because that’s all you get. All
I get. All … we … get. Because that’s not what happened.
[19] In reality, I really wanted the turkey. The
turkey, and to … not be in prison. Which, I imagine, was probably
how the turkey felt. Zack had been there as they’d taken me away,
and I think he’d tried to fight one of them. Where was Zack? Was he
OK? He’d be fine, must be. Kind of a law of storytelling – don’t
needlessly hurt side-characters when there’s no time to explore the
consequences on the main. And he’d told me the sentence anyway. The
cops were about to tell me their sentence. But my sentence was
better. It would unravel the Government. Expose it for the corrupt
64 GB data drive hidden in the walls of my cell system that
it was. Is. But ideally, Zack and I would do it together. Where was
Zack? Was he OK? He’d written the sentence down in a text file on a
USB. I’d need to find it, and he’d told me where it was. I think
he’d said the sentence, too. I think it was ‘Pay ten dollars for the
food that the guards eat at three and when there's three they'll say
words that let things happen so you find a way out’. But I’d need to
check it by finding the thing first. Where was Zack? Was he OK?
Wait. Did one of the cops just show me a drawing? He said they’d
found ‘Zack’, then he showed me a drawing. Oh no. This is bad. This
is bad, this is … If Zack was only in my head, then he was still
in my head. I’ve been too stuck in my head, they’ve been shoving
me around and changing my clothes, and chaining me up. I haven’t
noticed because I’ve been stuck in my head. They made some kind of
movement to put me in a straight-jacket. Then I told them the
sentence, and they seemed unsure. They still arrested me, but it
gave me time to recover. Recover. Like a man in a hospital bed.
Where was Zack? Was he OK? I wanted to see him. I wanted to see
anyone, because I didn’t want to see the brick walls inside the
prison.
Zack’s sentence … lots of talk of threes. What could that
mean? And why talk so openly about bribes – oh! That’s what it is …
[20] I’m safe here, and I’m safe now. So I can tell
you what actually happened.
I got put in prison for a murder that
happened in a family dinner, which I didn’t commit (and certainly
was the result of undercooked chicken). This dinner took place on a
boat, and it seemed like wherever I went to hide from the police and
my family, they could find me. They sent me to prison, where there
is literally nothing to do. Like, nothing. At all. So I wrote a
novel, escaping deeper and deeper into my mind as a substitute for
the hell I was in ... while meeting with lawyers and suchlike, so
that I could eventually be set free. Over time, they assembled a
case, and I assembled a novel; a broken, mangled and
clinically-insane sounding novel, but a novel nevertheless.
Eventually, the lawyers or whatever found evidence that I wasn’t
guilty at all, and I was released from prison. Then my family
decided to try and exact vengeance against me anyway, so they
continued to hunt me down. Nice family, huh. I travelled the world
to attempt to get away from them, but I’d only ever manage it for
short amounts of time. So I suppose eventually I won’t be safe here.
But for now it’s not bad. I live in Venice. For the moment. They
won’t find me here because apparently I’m scared of water. That
needs verifying, though.
See, though, how I managed to weave
details of the truth through a mass of completely fabricated
material. If I can do that so easily, then what’s to stop other
people doing that to me?
[21] Here’s the thing; I’ve been living on my own for
twenty years by this point. Not because I’ve been on the run for so
long, but just because I … can. Well, have to. Apparently, they say
I’m in prison. But I’m still able to talk to you, so you be the
judge. Thing is, everything I said before is true, to an extent. I
wrote the conspiracy in the footnotes because if I didn’t do that,
the guards would read it before it could get outside the prison. Or
at least I think that’s the reason why I did that. They couldn’t
read it because they wouldn’t let me send it. And then where would I
be? Sitting alone in a small, dark, windowless cell with no option
but to wait for death? Yeah, that’s where I’d be. I prefer it this
way. As far as I’m concerned, I’m in a bullet train carriage
speeding past the Japanese mountains. Eventually I’ll get to Tokyo.
Eventually.
But until then, I’m happy to wait. They send people
to check on me, so it’s not all boring. Just mostly.
Because
that’s all life is, isn’t it? Waiting for something better to
happen, and hopefully telling people about the wait in a way that’s
interesting. Quality of life means nothing, quality of stories is
everything, and I’ve got plenty of that.
Waiting for Tokyo while
sitting in a box whose doors don’t open.
But they will. One day.